


Every Atom Belonging to Me

by triedunture



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Food Porn, Footnotes, Human Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mortality, Mutual Pining, Sleepovers, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 03:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19220647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: Crowley is rendered temporarily mortal after a run-in with a-- Well, it doesn't really matter. What matters is he needs to eat and sleep and do the things humans must do if only for one night. Aziraphale can help with the eating bit, at least.A cozy, sweet evening with tea, drinks, food, poems, and warm blankets.





	Every Atom Belonging to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nimravidae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/gifts).



> An amazing force for good.

Aziraphale sat on his bench in St. James Park and tried not to be too put out as the sun sauntered inevitably downwards in the sky. It wasn't unusual for Crowley to be late, of course. He would often leave Aziraphale waiting for a few minutes, perhaps even a quarter of an hour, in what the angel supposed was an exercise in studied insouciance. However, on this particular day—May 29, 1861, a Wednesday if you're at all curious—Crowley was over an hour late, and that was troubling.

A check of the pocket watch just to be sure. Aziraphale consulted its face with a frown and snapped it shut again. An hour and twenty minutes! Why even agree on a time if the damned creature didn't intend to keep it? There were other things Aziraphale could be doing instead of sitting uselessly on a bench, though he couldn't think of what, exactly, those things might be at the moment, as he was distracted by the growing weed of worry.

Something was not right. Crowley should be here, Aziraphale thought.[1]

He scanned the park's thoroughfares and spotted in the distance a tall, thin, dark shape hurrying over the packed dirt, onyx whangee fisted so tight in one hand it didn't even touch the ground.

Aziraphale squinted. That couldn't be Crowley, he reasoned, as Crowley did not hurry. He ambled. Oozed. Once in awhile he sashayed. Whomever this might be barreling toward Aziraphale's bench at speed, it was certainly not Crowley.

The black shape came closer and closer until it stood panting and sweating before Aziraphale. A dark handkerchief was produced from a breast pocket and dabbed across the damp brow. The angel sat watching all this in silent disbelief. It was actually Crowley. But it also couldn't be because, in addition to never hurrying, Crowley did not pant nor sweat.

"What on Earth has happened to you?" Aziraphale finally asked.

Crowley bent to place his hands on his knees, still out of breath, and held up one single finger to indicate that Aziraphale should be gracious enough to give him a moment. His other hand, the one occupied with gripping his cane, clapped atop his stovepipe hat to stop it from tumbling to the ground. Aziraphale pursed his lips at this. Now that Crowley was here and clearly not apprehended by demonic forces that would punish him severely for these little meetings of theirs, righteous feeling surged through Aziraphale. In a word, he was miffed.

"I have been waiting for nearly two hours," he said, though it had really been an hour and twenty-two minutes. Rounding up has always been the purview of the wronged party. "Where have you been? And why are you gasping like that? It's unseemly."

"Oh, is it?" Crowley wheezed. His head jerked up so that his dark glasses glinted in the setting sunlight. He attempted a sneer but was honestly too weak from his exertions to be successful. He coughed into his handkerchief and settled for a glare. "Is it really?"

"Yes." Aziraphale was back to worried once more. He nodded to the empty space on their bench which had also been awaiting Crowley's appearance. "You'd better sit down."

Crowley collapsed on the bench, his thin chest still heaving at an alarming rate. His long legs tangled with his black cane, but he didn't seem to notice. Only Aziraphale did.

"Well?" the angel prompted.

"Well." Breathing somewhat calmed, Crowley gave an all-encompassing shrug. "The important thing," he said, "is that you don't panic."

Aziraphale's eyes went wide. "Panic? Why should I panic?"

"You shouldn't. That's the whole point I'm trying to make."

"But what's happened? Crowley!"

Beneath the dark glasses, eyes rolled. "You're panicking."

"Just tell me!"

Crowley opened his mouth, tongue working. Then he shut his mouth. The words, he found, were difficult to say aloud. With a sigh, he reached up and removed his dark glasses. It would be best, he decided, to speak with his eyes. He and Aziraphale did that a lot, anyway.

He looked into Aziraphale's face and watched as the angel's features contorted from concern to confusion to a furious combination of the two. "Crowley," he whispered.

Deep brown eyes blinked back at him. "Yes," the demon (who was not a demon at the moment) replied.

"They're—"

"I know."

"But—"

"Yes, I _know_. Here, let me explain."

This is the short version of how the demon Crowley became the sweaty, gasping human Crowley on that fine day in May, Crowley's own version being much too long.

That morning, several hours before their appointed meeting, Crowley had been sashaying about Soho looking for a spot of light tempting when his path had crossed with one Madame Ruth.[2] This daughter of the spiritualist movement happened to possess second sight, which was all very fine for her but not at all good for Crowley. It was a bit of a blur, but in effect he was subjected to history's first and only exorcism of an un-possessed, un-discorporated demonic form. In short, his immortal nature had been removed much like an olive might be plucked from its martini glass, leaving behind only the spirit—that is, a rather _mortal_ spirit.

I don't have to tell you, it was a sight to see on Poland Street before lunchtime.

"People _gawked_ ," groused Crowley as he completed his much more laborious retelling of these events. "They pointed. Gaped. Argh, it was terrible."

"What did you do?" Aziraphale asked, all agog.

"What could I do? I got down on my knees and thanked the silly woman for saving me from the forces of evil." Crowley's tone turned defensive. "About two dozen people had just witnessed a huge black winged shadow being pulled out of my mouth! What was I supposed to say? 'Excuse me, miss, but could you please put that back where you found it?' They'd tear me limb from limb and—let's be clear—it would be a piece of cake for them to do so what with the sorry state I'm in!"

"I'm sure it's been a rather trying day," Aziraphale said, patting Crowley's shoulder in sympathy.

Crowley shook him off. "Is that all you can say? Can't muster anything stronger than 'oh, what a trying day,'" he said in a high, jeering whine. "I'm human, Azirapahle. I can't live like this! Look at my hands!" He held out said hands to show how badly they were shaking. "Do you know what this is? Nerves! I have nerves!"

"I always thought you had a lot of them, actually," Aziraphale murmured.

"Would you shut—"

"Right. That was unfair," the angel said. "Forgive me."

"You know I won't," Crowley said. He tugged his greatcoat tighter around his frame and rearranged his long legs so they pointed along with his nose away from his companion. "I come to you for assistance and what do I get? Mocked."

"A thousand apologies," Aziraphale said, and he meant it. "Please, let me help. What can I do?"

And that's the thing, isn't it? Crowley wasn't sure what could be done. He sat there with his mouth open and his brown eyes blinking, and he tried to imagine a solution.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, took a moment to mourn the slitted gold he'd spent so many centuries staring into. Not that the brown didn't suit but— Well, it just wasn't the same. Even Crowley's snake marking seemed to be gone, no longer peeking through his fashionable side whiskers. Aziraphale looked for it and when he couldn't find it, he mourned it too, that little mark of the beast.

"Whatever that woman did to me," Crowley finally worked up the strength to say, "there must be a way to reverse it."

Aziraphale composed himself. "Quite."

"If you can take something out, you can shove it back in."

"Entirely logical."

"So we just need to find what I lost and—" Crowley mimed stuffing the head of his walking stick down his throat.

Aziraphale's nose wrinkled. "Must you be so vulgar?"

"I'm mortal at the moment. Mortals are vulgar."

"They don't _have_ to be. They can be gentlemen if they so choose," Aziraphale said with a sniff.

"If they so—!? Have we not been mingling with the lower classes much this century, angel? Perhaps you're not aware of this, but it's really not up to them."

"Yes, and whose fault is that? Capitalism was one of yours, I recall."

"And the feudal system was—" Crowley bit his lip with a grunt. "We're wasting time. We need to be looking for my," he gestured vaguely about his rib cage, "stuff. Before my lot or yours hear about what's happened. That's a mess neither of us want."

"Agreed." Aziraphale hesitated. "Where exactly do you think it, erm, went?"

Now Crowley hesitated. "I was hoping you'd know."

The question of where Crowley's immortal essence had gone would be answered the following afternoon. (Sorry to spoil it for you.) The pair would find themselves in Piccadilly and would be arrested somewhere near the corner of Arlington Street when Aziraphale would say, "Do you smell that?" And together they would follow the familiar scent that only Aziraphale could detect into the kitchen of the Old White Horse Cellar, a popular tavern and inn for coachmasters. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale had ever stepped foot in the place as they both shared a faint dislike of horses and those who tended to them, a prejudice that could be traced back to the Ark, when Noah's horses had nipped at their robes. At any rate, inside the tavern they would find a mass of dark winged demonic thing-ness, invisible to the human eye, flitting above a tray of cooling venison pies. With a bit of finagling, they would manage to put Crowley back to rights—not, as Crowley had initially thought, by swallowing it, but by allowing it to rejoin his earthly vessel in quite the show of sparks and icy wind and fearsome howls. The kitchen maids, who had held their jobs for some time, were not impressed by the display and continued making hot water crust.

Why Crowley's soul, for lack of a better term, was hanging about this location at all was not clear at the time, but the relief they both felt at finding it cast such small details to the backs of their minds.[3]

But we are not here to listen to the story of how these two managed to put Crowley back together. We are here only for the interesting bit: the single night that Crowley-as-human spent on Earth.

Aziraphale was truly sorry to say he had no idea where Crowley's black spirit had flown, and how they might find it. Crowley took the news in stride, all things considered. He righted his stovepipe and looked out over the duck pond.

"I suppose I have to keep this body alive for the time being," he said. "Bloody nuisance."

"You've managed to keep yourself from being discorporated this long. It shouldn't be a problem."

"Yes, well, I had the ability to flicker out of the material plane before. Now I have to avoid being run down by carriages." Crowley frowned. "How do humans dodge them? Do you know?"

Aziraphale's nose scrunched like a rabbit's. "I think they check before crossing."

Crowley grumbled at that. "Tedious."

"You'll need to eat as well if you want to stay alive," Aziraphale supplied. "You're probably hungry by now."

Crowley's face pinched in disgust. He replaced his dark glasses, though they did nothing to mask his expression. "Is that what this feeling is?" He poked a bony finger into his stomach. "All squirmy. I thought it might be worms."

"Well, I'm not sure squirmy is the right word. It should feel like something gnawing at you." Aziraphale made a mouth out of his hand and like a puppeteer proceeded to chomp away at the air around his own middle. "I think."

"Oh. Then maybe it is worms."[4]

"Come on. Let's get you fed," Aziraphale said brightly, not wishing to dwell on the subject. He stood and offered Crowley a hand. "I'm sure you'll feel much better once you've eaten."

Crowley took Aziraphale's hand and allowed himself to be helped to his aching feet. Walking everywhere instead of using demonic translocation was very draining. "You must be so pleased with yourself," he hissed, "finally having an excuse to make me taste food."

Aziraphale _was_ rather pleased, but he didn't dare say so. He merely walked arm-in-arm with Crowley, as was the fashion at the time, out of the park and toward his cozy bookshop with a beatific look on his face.

Aziraphale's shop was new in the relative scheme of things, having been established only 60-odd years prior. It was on an excellent corner: not too much sun, not too much traffic, not too much noise, and through divine intervention, a very fair and very long-term lease. Crowley had visited the place before, though only briefly and never as a human, of course. When he walked in, he immediately sneezed.

"What was _that_?" he cried as soon as he'd regained his senses. "That! Was!" His face screwed up in preparation for a second blow. Aziraphale winced as it came. Crowley sneezed like a racehorse.

"Horrible," Crowley finished with a sniffle. "Damn it all, I'm ill. I'm dying, angel." He ran his much-abused handkerchief under his streaming nose. "This is the end of me."

"Don't be so dramatic," Aziraphale chided. "You're just having a bit of a reaction to the air in here." He guided Crowley gently by the elbow to the most comfortable chair in the place, an overstuffed wingback positioned just so by the grate.

"An entire circle of Hell could be replaced by that," Crowley growled. "Forget the boiling rivers of blood. Just subject the damned to your musty old books."

Despite his pique, Crowley let himself be placed in the armchair without a fight. He removed his hat and glasses, surrendered his stick and gloves to Aziraphale's tender mercies, and flopped back into the chair's soft embrace with a sigh.

Aziraphale regarded him thoughtfully. The fact is, angels were not supposed to perform frivolous miracles. He was meant to avoid the attention of his overseers and only work the miracles he was assigned. However, in this instance, he thought it prudent to nudge a tiny amount of holiness into the air to cleanse it of its dust. He watched Crowley breathe more easily and was pleased.

"Let me make you some tea," he said, putting away their hats and things in the appropriate places.

"You make tea? You don't conjure it up from somewhere?" Crowley's coppery hair bobbed back into sight around the chair's wing.

Aziraphale smiled. "I quite like making it. Shall I show you?"

"...No." His head disappeared once more.

The angel went into the pantry and put together a simple meal for them both. Food was Aziraphale's most well-documented indulgence, and he kept his stocks diligently piled. While the kettle boiled, he assembled a little of everything: slices of boiled ham on brown bread with a slathering of spiced jam; pickled asparagus spears studded with garlic; half of a cold game pie from last night's supper; a stack of buttery shortbread; a few sugared plums; and a recipe of Aziraphale's own creation that involved oysters and dried dates wrapped in crisped rashers.

Once all was prepared, he approached the sitting room with his laden tray to find Crowley sunk moodily in his armchair, his nose pressed into his chest and his eyes shut tight.

"It's no good sulking, Crowley," Aziraphale admonished. He plunked the tray onto a marble side table with a light rattle. Crowley jerked in his seat—jerked awake, Aziraphale now realized with wide eyes.

"Were you asleep?" he demanded.

"I think so," Crowley mumbled, rubbing at his face. "Holy Hell."

"I suppose you'll need to sleep as well as eat, at least until we have you sorted." Aziraphale took his own chair across from Crowley and lit a fire with a thought. Another frivolous miracle. Gosh, he was racking them up. "What does it feel like? Sleep, I mean," he asked as he poured the tea.

Crowley helped himself to an oyster-bacon parcel. "I thought it would be nicer. Humans seem to do it enough that it looked a real treat, but right now I just feel fuzzy." He popped the morsel in his mouth and chewed. His eyes grew round and sought out Aziraphale.

To his credit, the angel hid his smile fairly well behind his steaming teacup.

"You made this?" Crowley asked through the mouthful, pointing at his still-moving jaw.[5]

"I will forgive you for not knowing the etiquette as you're so new to it, but generally one tries to refrain from speaking while eating," Aziraphale said before taking a delicate sip of his milky tea.

"This is—" More chewing, unfortunately, as the advice went unheeded. "When I tried to eat before, it wasn't anything like this. My mouth feels—how does it feel?"

"Happy?" Aziraphale suggested. He hated to think that perhaps this was because demons were unable to enjoy simple things like food; that would be too cruel a punishment, even for the Almighty in Her biggest of fits. And anyway, Crowley could enjoy simple things; Aziraphale had seen it himself. Take him to a botanical garden, for example, and Crowley could spend an entire day in a state of near-rapture. He'd also be barking orders at the orchids, of course, but that was all part of his singular charm.

Crowley swallowed and looked across the table at Aziraphale. "Happy. Yes," he agreed, and reached for another, this time one with dates.

Aziraphale fixed Crowley a cup of tea the way he himself preferred, since Crowley wasn't sure how he should take it. One sugar and enough milk to create a deep, silky brown. Aziraphale smiled down into the cup as the color emerged. Yes, a brown much like—

Crowley's new eyes flicked back up to him in the middle of a massacre of shortbread. "Don't think I don't see what you're trying to do," he said, spewing crumbs.

"And what might that be?" the angel asked, handing him the cup on its saucer.

"You think," Crowley said, "that this is your chance to _save_ me."

Aziraphale leaned forward in his chair, scandalized. "My dear fellow!"

"Oh, don't try to deny it." Crowley took a sip of his tea, made a face, and reached for the sugar bowl, plopping three more cubes into his suffering cup. "Now that I'm human, I don't have any of that pesky damnation clinging to me. You'll take advantage, obviously. I'd be the only demon in all of history to see the Light. Be a real feather in your cap, wouldn't it?" He raised his brows archly as he stirred his tea, spoon clinking in judgement.

Aziraphale's mouth flapped open and closed before finally producing the words he wanted. "Crowley, I would never do that to you."

"Why not?" Crowley shrugged. "It's what you _do_. It's your _job_."

"You're not a job. Just because you've been—" Aziraphale stopped, thinking distressing thoughts. "Crowley, if our positions were reversed…."

"Turning it back on me, then?" Crowley sneered. "Typical."

Aziraphale soldiered on. "If I were the one to have been rendered mortal somehow, would you do it?" His face crumpled. "Would you tempt me?"

Instead of answering, Crowley glared into his teacup and stuffed another piece of shortbread in his mouth, chewing in angry silence. Aziraphale breathed a little easier.

"I don't think you would," he said with all the gentleness in the world. "Likewise, I have no interest in trying to change you. Your nature is what it is." His eyes creased at the corners as he smiled. "And I quite like it that way."

Unable to withstand such declarations, Crowley mumbled through his mouthful of shortbread, "You'd be a terrible resident of Hell, is the thing. Would muck up all the good bits. Might try to make daisy chains for the adulterers and such."

"Well, personally, I always did feel that the punishment for adultery was a bit harsh." Aziraphale tilted his head, then selected a sugared plum from the tray.

"So you're not—?" Crowley struggled with setting his cup properly in its saucer. "All of this," he gestured to the tray of food, the cheery fire, the very air, "it's not some misguided attempt to bring me back into the fold?"

"Of course not. Don't be silly. As you pointed out, I'm just enjoying a chance to see you eat for once. Now try the pie; you'll like it." Aziraphale cut him a slice, and Crowley found it was awfully good.

They ate and drank tea, then wine, then whiskey, and chatted about Crowley's predicament until the hour grew very late. The lamplighters had all finished their business and the street outside the shop was silent. The fire crackled as bright as it had at the beginning of their meal, being miraculous. Their conversation hit a comfortable lull, the kind that feels as if it could stretch out forever. Crowley busied himself with sniffing at his whiskey between sips, savoring it more than he had in the past. Aziraphale supposed he could actually taste all its myriad bits now.

His own glass was empty and Crowley's was nearly there too, so Aziraphale hefted the decanter and motioned for Crowley's drink. Crowley shook his head, holding the glass against his breastbone.

"I shouldn't," he said, quiet in the crackling dark. "Getting a little drunk, I fear, and I won't be able to sober up like I used to."

"Right, of course." Aziraphale had forgotten about that, the limits of human tolerance. He replaced the decanter on the sideboard, deciding that he'd had enough as well. "You should get some sleep, I imagine."

"Mm." Crowley's head swiveled on his neck, birdlike in its curiosity. "Where's your bed, then?"

Aziraphale paused in the middle of biting into a plum. "My what?"

"Your bed." Crowley stretched a luxurious length, his long limbs starfishing around him. "I can't go back to my place tonight. If my lot pop by and see me like this, I'll be dissected faster than you can say mortal soul. So? Where is it?"

"I don't have a bed," Aziraphale said. "I don't sleep, if you recall."

"Oh." Crowley looked around the bookshop sitting room as if realizing whose it was for the first time. "Right. Makes sense."

"Not to worry." Aziraphale stood and went over to what looked like a large pile of books but was actually a chaise lounge underneath a large pile of books. He began excavating the poor piece of furniture, revealing its deep brown leather studded with brass tacks. "Let me make up a bed for you here. It should be quite comfortable."

"Will it?" Crowley eyed the thing with a dubious sigh. "Beggars can't be choosers, I suppose."

"That's the spirit," Aziraphale said unthinkingly and, when he glanced up and saw Crowley's hurt look, amended, "Sorry. Poor choice of words." He finished stacking the books beside the chaise and bustled about, plucking embroidered pillows and crocheted afghans from other spots. Once assembled, the chaise looked rather inviting. He patted a pillow with his palm, smiling at Crowley. "There you are. Should do you nicely for one night, at least."

"Let's hope that's all I'll need," Crowley muttered, levering himself from the wingback chair. He wobbled on his feet, head spinning. He lifted a hand to his brow as if to keep it in place. "Oh no. Oh shit."

"The human state of tipsiness, I presume," Aziraphale said, going to his side. "Come on, let's lay you down." He helped Crowley out of his greatcoat and hung it on a peg before taking his companion by the arm.

Crowley leaned into him heavily. His palm found purchase in Aziraphale's velvet waistcoat and clutched there. "This is nice. Is this new?" he asked.

"Only had it a few years," Aziraphale said, fighting to keep Crowley upright and to keep the blush from his cheeks.

"You should keep this one. Suits you." He patted his hand against the rich cream velvet. "It's soft."

Aziraphale smiled. "And you, my friend, are tight."

Crowley mustered a rather weak glare as he was led to his makeshift bed. "Don't be so smug. I might look vulnerable but I—" He paused, wobbled a bit more, then bent to grope for the edge of the chaise for support. "I'm actually in complete control. This is all part of my plan."

"Is it?" Aziraphale said kindly, fluffing a pillow to prepare it for Crowley's slowly descending head.

"Of course. I'm using this time spent in mortal form to—to— To better acquaint myself with the human condition. Makes it much easier for me to persuade them over to my side, you see."

"Ah, yes." Aziraphale gave Crowley a gentle push so that he was laying the right way on the chaise and not across it.

"I'll be a much more dangerous opponent once this is all over, I can tell you that," Crowley continued, glazed brown eyes tracking along the ceiling. "Downright diabolical. A real force to be reckoned with. Evil force, that is."

"Would you like me to leave a candle burning for you tonight?" Aziraphale asked as he drew a thick, cozy afghan up to Crowley's chin.

"Well, you can't expect me to sleep in the pitch dark," he said, his voice high with shock. "What if something happened? I wouldn't be able to see anything, not with these human eyes." Crowley snugged down so that the covers came right up under his nose, fiery hair a wild tangle just above.

Aziraphale patted his hand where it clutched at his covers. "You're quite right." Only a being as sincere as he could say that without sounding condescending.

He lit a chamberstick and set it on a nearby table, far enough from any books that there would be no danger of a fire breaking out, close enough so that Crowley was inside its ring of soft light. The fire in the grate he put out with a thought leaving behind only the pleasant smell of burnt orange peels and cinnamon.

"There," he said, turning toward the stairs with a satisfied nod. "See you in the morning, then, Crowley."

"Wait, where are you going?" Crowley sat up a little against his mound of pillows. "I mean, what do you do at night when everything else is asleep?"

Aziraphale paused with one hand on the banister. "Well, I read. I take stock of things. Sometimes I have a late night snack." Aziraphale's mouth twitched as he thought. "Whatever needs doing, I suppose."

Crowley curled on his side, hands loosely dangling over the edge of the cushion. "Ah," was all he said.

Aziraphale removed his hand from the banister and let it hover in the air. "Would you...like me to stay here while you sleep?"

The shrug came very quickly. Brown eyes fastened to the ceiling. "I wouldn't mind if that's what you want to do. Can't have me disrupting your usual pottering, if this is where you do it. Go right ahead, is what I say. Don't mind me." Long fingers rife with nerves twitched the afghan into about the same configuration as it had been.

A lesser angel might have pointed out Crowley's obvious fear of spending his first night of unconsciousness alone and in the dark, but Aziraphale had the grace not to mention it. He merely nodded pleasantly, scooted his wingback closer to the chaise so that he was within the candle's light, and selected a book from a tottering stack nearby so he'd have something to read while Crowley slumbered.

If he ever got around to slumbering, that is.

"What are you reading?" Crowley asked after one beat of silence.

Pale eyebrows rose in consternation. "A book," Aziraphale said, not looking up from his reading.

"Anything I'd like?"

"You don't like books." Aziraphale licked his thumb and turned the page. "You've made that very clear to me on several occasions."

"Well, maybe it's like food. I might not enjoy it normally but tonight…" Crowley sniffed, rearranging the stack of pillows under his head. "Could be I give it a try."

Aziraphale glanced up, his eyes glowing. "Really? Then—" He nearly held out his copy of _Leaves of Grass_ for Crowley, but at the last moment he remembered how humanly fragile his old friend was. He could get a paper cut on his vulnerable fingers, for example. How awful it would be to see an immortal being like Crowley bleed. "Then I could," he stammered, "read aloud to you. If you like."

Crowley mulled it over, his bottom lip doing quite the acrobatic display. "Eh, might put me to sleep at least. Give it a go."

Aziraphale beamed at him. "All right, I shall." He flipped to his favorite bit. The familiar words stared back at him, and a sudden flash of worry shot through Aziraphale's middle. He glanced at Crowley, who was watching him from his pillow with the sort of bland impatience one should expect when it came to Crowley. "If you don't like it," said Aziraphale, "I can read something else."

"Just get on with it," Crowley huffed, and so Aziraphale did.

"'I celebrate myself,'" he began, "'and I sing myself, and what I assume you shall assume. For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you….'"[6]

He continued reading in his gentle, melodic way, voice weaving through words and darkness and candlelight as the taper burned down. Crowley's tired eyes drooped closed, then opened, then drooped again and again. He did not sneer at the poem, for which Aziraphale was in equal parts thankful and surprised.

Aziraphale was just getting to the bit about being the mate and companion of people when Crowley interrupted in a sleepy, low voice.

"Do you think I'll dream?" he asked. "When I fall asleep tonight?"

Aziraphale stopped at that, then marked his page with a slip of paper. "I don't know," he said as he shut the book. "You might."

"I don't want to." Crowley blinked up into the dark. "I might see things—not very nice things. The state I'm in, I'm not sure I'd be up for it."

Aziraphale set aside the Whitman and leaned closer to Crowley's makeshift bed. He didn't say a word, not knowing what could be said. Angels had ways to soothe frightened souls, but Crowley would balk at such tender mercies. Prayers and platitudes did not become him.

In the quiet of that night, Crowley felt Aziraphale's silence as a warm weight. "You must do this often," he said.

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. "Do what?"

"Watch over mortals while they sleep. That's one of your gags, isn't it?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, though in truth he'd only participated in nightwatch duty a handful of times, and wasn't very good at it. "It is."

Crowley tried to summon some cutting remark about pervert angels breathing on humans in their bedrooms, but the words wouldn't come. He could only stare at Aziraphale across the short distance between them with those large, brown, liquid eyes.

It was in this moment, a year before he'd muster the courage to ask Aziraphale for a jug of holy water, that Crowley realized he needed to figure out a way to protect himself, to protect their arrangement, to protect _this_. His plan had heretofore been to simply distance himself from his angelic counterpart if and when suspicions arose. But now he saw that he wouldn't be able to. Not for all the souls in the Pit.

And it was in this moment, a century before he'd deliver a tartan flask to Crowley filled with the one thing that could harm him, that Aziraphale promised himself to do whatever he could to keep this wondrous creature of his safe.

Aziraphale reached out, a slight tremor running through his hand only once, and grasped Crowley's hand where it dangled off the chaise. Their fingers tangled sweetly as stitches interlocking. Crowley's small intake of breath was loud in the glistening quiet, but he did not jerk away. He lay there, and Aziraphale sat there, and they held each other's hands.

"What's this, then?" Crowley whispered to Aziraphale.

"Being mortal is quite scary," Aziraphale said simply, and squeezed Crowley's hand, and did not let go. "This is supposed to help. Does it?"

"Might do." Crowley squeezed in return, just a little, as if he wasn't sure how to go about it. "Will you—?"

"I'll stay right here," Aziraphale promised, "and make sure your dreams are pleasant ones."

"Because I don't think I can stay awake much longer," Crowley said, eyelids fluttering.

"That's all right. Get some rest."

"And you'll stay?" His eyes were shut but his voice was an open plea.

"Of course." Lips that spoke only of love brushed against Crowley's knuckles, and they both pretended he was too far gone into the depths of sleep to have felt it. "Good night, darling."

The reply was too soft for human ears, but Aziraphale heard it. Like poetry, like a promise, like a light perfume.

"Good night, angel."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 This was a thought Aziraphale had had many times before, but usually in happier, more wistful circumstances. Crowley should be here, he'd think as he enjoyed an especially succulent platter of stuffed pigeons at the court of some medieval king. Crowley should be here, he'd think as an especially entertaining play began at the Globe. Thinking this thought while mired in dread was a new one. He didn't much like it.  [ return to text ]
> 
>  
> 
> 2 Madame Ruth, you might be interested to know, is the great-great-aunt of Madame Tracy, whom I believe you've met. This is not to say that mediumship runs in the blood, of course. In fact, Madame Ruth is only a great-great-aunt of Madame Tracy by marriage, having wedded Great-Great-Uncle Enoch in 1872. Coincidences abound, especially in Portland Street.  [ return to text ]
> 
>  
> 
> 3 The connection would not be made by Aziraphale or Crowley for over a century. Some years after this 1861 sojourn, The Old White Horse on that corner would be replaced by a new venture, and in that place Crowley and Aziraphale would meet many times over glasses of champagne or plates of perfect scallops (Crowley pushing his over to his dining companion, of course; a sort of angel's share). The dining room of the Ritz, it should surprise no one at this point to hear, was built right atop the kitchen of the old tavern. It is a cosmic certainty that one's soul will always return to its home, after all, regardless of little things like linear time.  [ return to text ]
> 
>  
> 
> 4 It was not.  [ return to text ]
> 
>  
> 
> 5 If you by chance ever see Angels on Horseback on a starter menu, you really should give them a try. Unless you don't eat oysters, of course, in which case perhaps Devils on Horseback will be more to your taste. Unless you also don't eat bacon, in which case this footnote is of no use to you at all.  [ return to text ]
> 
>  
> 
> 6 Poetry, if you didn't know, is its own breed of prophecy.  [ return to text ]

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Every Atom Belonging to Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19284865) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)
  * [[podfic] Every Atom Belonging to Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19452118) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




End file.
